Wonderwall
by Valeriasg1
Summary: “I don’t want to see you’ve cried. I don’t need your pity.” John turned his back to her and stared once again at the window, watching the rain lashing against the glass.


Title: Wonderwall

Author: Vale (dreamingofZionlibero.it)

Classification: pre X-files, DRF, Doggett / Reyes partnership – friendship

Rating: PG-13 for minor curse words

Spoilers: This is not Happening

Disclaimers: John Doggett and Monica Reyes belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I'll just play with them a little and call them George. Hopefully they won't even notice they're missing so I'll be able to keep them with me forever.

Summary: "I don't want to see you've cried. I don't need your pity." John turned his back to her and stared once again at the window, watching the rain lashing against the glass.

Thanks:

#1 Many many thanks to Kate for her wonderful beta job. If it wasn't for her the fic would still be full of long, twisted phrases and grammar glitches. Thank you Kate! bows

#2 Thanks to Oasis too for the title

New York

August 1993

It had started raining soon after they'd cleared up the crime scene and the coroner's truck had left for the morgue with the small, battered body of Luke John Doggett.

As the first drops started to fall, hard and heavy, on his face and clothes, he retreated to agent Reyes's car and settled in the passenger seat before some overtly sympathetic colleague could try to comfort him with the most overused conventional expression.

the sky is crying for the loss of your child. Just crap.

John Doggett had never been a man for clichés.

But the weather suited his mood and it would allow him to avoid the sight of the neighbors' kids playing happily in their yards when he came home.

The time outside the car seemed to go in slow-motion; numbness clouded his senses like a thick layer of cotton, and he idly wondered if he would be able to ever feel again.

His eyes darted to the young woman talking to two agents from his department. He watched as she repeatedly pushed her wind-blown bangs from out of her eyes.

Suddenly weary of the place, he started hoping she would hurry up. He actually didn't know yet where he would go once they returned to the police station.

Home didn't have that much of an appeal to him anymore: everything there was somehow connected to Luke. His things were all where he had left them that morning. And he'd been there…dozing restlessly on the couch in the living room, when the call came.

He had been asleep only for a few minutes when the phone's shrill ring brought him back to his nightmarish reality.

"_Hello?" _He waited anxiously for a voice to reply; his stomach churned with the mixed feelings of dread and hope he had come to know so well.

Barbara's eyes still held an optimism he had forced himself to abandon after the first day Luke was missing. He was a policeman, and he knew what the odds of finding him alive were.

"_John? It's Monica Reyes."_ There was an edge to her voice that told him everything he needed to know. Desolation enveloped him completely.

He didn't know what to do, but leaving the clearing sounded like a first step.

Eventually, Doggett saw Monica shake hands with the policemen, who smiled at her while gathering the last instruments still lying on the now slightly muddy soil.

She gave them a curt nod and didn't return the smile before turning away and walking in long strides towards the car. The slim Morley light bobbed with her every step and her head hung dejectedly as she glanced at him through the windshield. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and kept her back slightly hunched to protect herself from the wind and the rain.

Images of Humphrey Bogart materialized in his mind for a second, and an hysterical-sounding chuckle bubbled up his throat. Ironic how he remembered the face of a man long gone and couldn't remember his son's.

"He didn't smoke that sissy crap, you know," he mumbled as soon as she opened the car door.

"Who?" She eased herself into the seat, shrugging off her damp coat.

"Bogart." If she had a reaction to his comment, he didn't see it. She just inserted the key in the ignition and leaned across him to grasp the safety belt on his side.

"Put this on." Her voice was gentle as she slid the hook in his limp hand. John complied numbly and rested his head against the window, relishing in the feeling of the cold glass against his forehead.

He closed his eyes, listening to the rustling of clothes as the FBI agent swung her briefcase in the backseat and fumbled with her own safety belt.

The engine started and the car moved slowly backwards before being roughly pulled into the main road. The motion made his head bump against hard rubber and glass, but he didn't shift. He was too tired to move. The adrenaline rush of the last three days was starting to wear off, and every hour of lost sleep was now catching up with him, making his head feel as heavy as lead on his neck.

The tears were damp and warm against his cheeks.

He could feel her eyes on him from time to time, but mostly she stayed focused on the road ahead, concentrating on the task of driving on wet asphalt and with a much reduced visibility.

No words were spoken, and he was grateful for that.

Exhaustion had to have got the better of him, because the next thing he recalled was a warm hand on his forearm, shaking him lightly.

"Detective Doggett? John?" His brain faintly registered Monica's voice, and he noticed the car wasn't moving anymore. He scrubbed his face warily, trying to muster up enough strength -physical and emotional- to leave the comfort and the silence of the car.

"Thank you for the ride agent Reyes. I'll see ya later."

The downpour hadn't eased, and small droplets of rain fell, stinging his face as he rushed inside the department. The wind had picked up during their short journey, and dry leaves drew patterns in the air as they flew past him.

A few were stuck to the station's external lamps, casting oddly shaped shadows on the pavement underneath him.

He kept his gaze locked purposefully to the floor as he made his way through the familiar corridors, not wanting to see the compassion in his co-workers' eyes.

At least a dozen heads turned in the direction of his office door as it clicked shut behind him.

He walked straight to the window, intentionally avoiding the family photo that sat on his desk. The photo showed the three of them: him, Barbara, and Luke holding the Little League baseball cup.

Even there, peace didn't last for long. Soon came a knock, and a few moments later the door cracked open, letting in the brighter light of the hallway for an instant before it closed softly and the room was plunged again into a cobweb of shadows.

Doggett knew it was her even before he heard the quiet clicking of her low-heeled shoes. It was typical of cops, or at least those he was acquainted with, to leave the dirty work to the outsider.

The young, over-zealous Federal made the perfect target.

He sensed her inhale shakily and braced himself, ready for the silence to be broken.

"Your wife just called. She's taken care of everything at the morgue, and she's going back to her mother's house. She says she'd like you to be there after you're finished here." She licked her lips nervously, fingers fiddling with the hem of her jacket while she waited for any signs of recognition.

Nothing came.

"Some of the guys are leaving. They can give you a ride there before heading home."

She saw his chest expand and then deflate with a deep breath. Still, he didn't turn.

"I'll need things from home. And I don't want to leave just now."

"I have an informal debriefing in ten. It should give you enough time." An eternity couldn't make anyone ready to face the death of his child, but it was all she could give him.

He slowly pivoted around on his heels, a small scowl wrinkling his forehead.

"Then I'll drive you to your mother-in-law's. We'll stop at your place to get an overnight bag."

The man sighed. "You don't need to do this. I'll get a cab."

"I just want to make sure you're in the right hands." A burst of anger surged through him and for a split moment he was about to shoot her a harsh remark. How dared she…

The instant passed and the fury did as well, leaving him even more drained of his energies.

He knew what the procedures were, he went through them too many times during his time with the NYPD. Never leave the parents alone in the aftermath. You never know what they might do out of desperation.

His shoulders slumped. "Whatever."

She mouthed an 'ok' and nodded. A thunder struck and the lamp above their heads swung back and forth with the tremor, enhancing the worry lines on Monica's face. Fatigue was etched into her features, eyelids droopy and her stance unusually off-guard. Her hair and clothes were mussed and sprayed with mud after a whole day's search in the woods.

She looked even younger than she had three days earlier when she'd stormed into the briefing room in a blur of jet black hair and navy blue suit, and almost physically smaller.

Unfortunately, sympathy wasn't part of his current range of feelings.

He grabbed a tissue box from his desk and offered her a Kleenex. "What?" Her voice was still low and slightly croaky.

"You've got dirt on your face." He thrust the handkerchief more insistently towards her until she took it, and his arm fell limply at his side.

"Mascara." She explained as she dabbed at her eyes. He studied her as she wiped her cheeks and nose, his gaze piercing through her, making her more uncomfortable than she already was. When she felt she was as clean as she'd ever be for the rest of her shift, Monica crumbled the Kleenex in her hand and dropped it into a paper bin. "Thanks."

"I don't want to see you've cried. I don't need your pity." John turned his back to her and stared once again at the window was once again staring out the window, watching the rain lashing against the glass.

"I'm sorry." She looked down, suddenly fascinated by the speckles of dried mud on her shoes. "I don't usually break my promises." His head shot up to look at her, and a faint memory of a night in the woods, bright flashlight beams and shouts floated to the surface.

"_We'll get him back. I promise." _He couldn't remember her face as she uttered those words, shadowed by waving tree branches and barely lit by the reflection of her own torch. He had nodded weakly, offering her a grimace for a smile, and they continued the search, the wind carrying their calls through the forest.

It had been two nights before, yet everything looked and sounded blurred and faded in his mind, like childhood memories.

Only now he realized that by that time he was probably already dead, and his body shook with a dry sob. He had no tears left to shed anymore.

"It wasn't your fault." He forced himself to say through an unsteady voice.

"It wasn't yours, either." She reminded him. "They're waiting for me. I'll be back soon."

Her hand was already on the door handle when he spoke again.

"Earlier…in the clearing…"

Monica took a tentative step towards him. "Yes?"

"I think I saw something. Luke…" He swallowed hard. "Luke's body turned to ashes when I crouched down. It was just a moment, I-I don't know what to think. Maybe it's just me going insane."

"You're not. I saw it, too."

That particular conversation was never brought up again.

-

She pulled the old Chevy in Doggett's empty driveway, her heart clenching at the sight of the red bicycle and several toys scattered in the yard. A cat scampered across the garden and observed the foreign car with large yellow eyes.

"Crap, no one's been feeding him for days."

"Pack up, I'll take care of it."

"Listen…" He picked up the cat, which hissed indignantly and showed its claws. "Could you find him another place? He was Luke's, and I'm not sure Barbara will want him around anymore, now that…" He fell silent and his eyes went downwards for a moment. "She never really liked him."

She took the squirming animal from his hands and let him curl in her lap, purring as he devoured the remnants of a ham sandwich –what was left of her lunch- she had in her purse.

"Off you go. Barbara will be starting to worry if we don't get there soon."

John wasn't really surprised when she told him, weeks later, that she ended up adopting the cat herself. She looked like someone who took injured animals home when she was a kid.

Maybe she still did.

The day he came back to work, about a month after that dreadful day, she greeted him cautiously with a nod from his Captain's desk, where they were planning watches for the night.

Yet again, he wasn't surprised to find her still hanging around the police station. The theory of a ritualistic kidnapping now discarded, she wasn't in the lead of the investigation anymore, but working as a consultant due to her familiarity with the case.

They seemed to have hit a dead end. Agents were tailing the suspect 24 hours a day, and they still had no proof he was even remotely involved with Luke's murder.

"It feels like hitting a brick wall." She said one day over a shared bowl of over-cooked spaghetti. They often spent their lunch hour discussing the case and random facts of life. He had carefully avoided her in his first days back, the fear her company would bring to the surface memories and feelings he had tried to force deep down in his soul outweighing his trademark good manners.

But he had soon grown accustomed to her presence. There was something oddly comforting knowing that she had been along in his personal journey through hell, especially now that Barbara had permanently moved in with her mother and divorce papers were already on their way.

But soon the investigation was dropped for lack of evidence. Monica was reassigned to her FBI office full-time and there was no reason for them to talk anymore.

They saw each other randomly after that, on the rare occasions the police and the Bureau worked together or in the small diner where police, military and FBI people gathered and mixed after endless work days.

One day the pressure and the memories became too much to bear and he found himself in her small shared office in the Federal building, asking her for application forms to Quantico for their first real exchange since the day his son's case had been archived.

FBI headquarters

Washington D.C

March 2001

Special Agent John Doggett fingered the crumpled post-it, his gaze shifting from it to the open folders scattered on his office desk.

She had given him that address when she had been transferred to New Orleans a good year and a half earlier, and he'd never called her since. He didn't even know if it was still valid.

He took a list of names from a stack of photocopies and dropped it back on the top, sighing dejectedly.

Unusual facts piled up with no apparent connection, people kept disappearing and Mulder was still nowhere to found. And Scully and her unborn baby were in great danger.

His hand reached out for the phone; hesitated for a moment and lifted the receiver to his ear. With a last glance to the piece of paper, he punched in the number and waited as the telephone at the other end of the line rang once, twice, three times.

"_Hello?" _

"Monica? It's John Doggett…"

The end (or the beginning?)


End file.
